Crowley Has A Garden
by WolfieJimi
Summary: Crowley has a garden. Another garden. A garden where the cast outs go... A little story written in a style vaguely reminiscent of children's picture books, with only an itsy-bitsy hint of blink-and-you'll-miss-it angst.


Crowley has a Garden.

This is the Garden in his flat.

In this Garden, Crowley keeps his plants in perfect order. They are the most beautiful plants in all of London. Possibly in all of England. Crowley is extremely proud of his plants, his perfect, flawless plants. He watches over them with a doting eye. He watches them like a hawk.

Sometimes a plant would get leaf spot. It would get stem rust. _Chlorosis _. Sometimes, some plants simply weren't perfect.

Sometimes, Crowley has to Set An Example.

A plant is singled out. One less than perfect. One that doesn't excel. One that is flawed somehow. One that does not fit in.

Crowley holds it up before its peers.

_This plant is Not Good Enough _, he would say.

_This plant is not Up To Snuff._

_This plant is not what I deem to be Adequate._

_I do not tolerate Imperfection _.

And then Crowley would smile, but it would not be a very _nice _smile.

_Say goodbye to your flawed little friend _.

And the other plants would shiver and quiver and quake, and Crowley would leave with the plant.

Crowley would come back with its empty pot.

And the other plants would _Grow Better._

But, you see, the thing is, Crowley never did put any plants into the garbage disposal. For one thing, garbage disposal units were rather unusual in England, and Crowley didn't want to have to deal with getting a specialist repairman in if he broke the damn thing by feeding it whole plants.

For another thing, Crowley simply didn't have the _heart _to do it.

No. Crowley doesn't shred his flawed plants.

Crowley takes them downstairs.

Crowley _casts them out._

Crowley has a garden.

Not the Garden in his flat.

This is another garden. A little garden. Not even a garden, really, not when you really consider it. More a tiny patch of greenery cut out from the pavement around the back of the apartment building. The owners of the building kept deciding to have it concreted over to make another parking space, but for some reason it always slipped their minds before they got around to it.

Yes, Crowley has another garden.

It is here where you will find the outcasts. The plants who didn't make the cut, or, rather, who did. They are small and misshapen, diseased and discoloured, broken and flawed. But they are hardy little things. They survive. Before long, they have taken over the little patch of land, and made it into their own. Wild and untamed, chaotic and creeping, Crowley's other garden was not a place most people would describe as beautiful. It would not win any awards. It was far too rebellious. Far too reprehensible. The garden was not _nice _.

Sometimes Crowley would stand in his other garden, and glare. Sometimes he would tell the plants exactly why they had failed him. Sometimes he would sigh.

Crowley put a bench in it.

He liked the fresh air, he told himself. That's all.

Crowley didn't like his other garden.

After Nahmageddon, Aziraphale came over a lot more. To the flat. To Crowley's flat. They still mostly hung out at the bookshop, but sometimes Crowley wanted to do his laundry, or watch satellite television, or pick up something or another to bring back home to Soho. On those days,Aziraphale would come over, too.

And on some of those days, when the weather was clement, and the afternoons were long, sometimes they would go for a walk. Sometimes they would amble and meander their way to a cafe or a bar or back in a loop to Crowley's front door. And sometimes they would end up at the garden.

Aziraphale did like Crowley's other garden.

Sometimes they would sit there, on the bench, and talk for hours. Sometimes they would bring a bottle of wine, and get some chips from that really good chip-shop round the corner from _M&S Simply Food _. Sometimes they would just sit side by side in silence. It was nice.

Aziraphale planted some lavender in the garden.

Another day, he added a bird bath.

And one day, the garden was suddenly twice the size it used to be.

Crowley stopped thinking of it as the other garden.

It just became the garden.

_Why do you always want to sit out here, angel? _He asked, one day.

_It's nice. _The Angel replied.

_But why? _

_I suppose because it reminds me of you, dear boy._

_Charming. _Crowley said. That hurt.

_What?_

_Oh, nothing. Being compared to the compost heap. The Failure's Graveyard. The place where bad plants go to die. Brilliant. Lovely. Thanks, angel, I really appreciate it. _

_I'm not quite sure I follow._

_Don't play cute with me. You know this is where I put all of the plants that aren't good enough for my Garden. The Garden in my flat. The good Garden. I let 'em think I kill the bad ones, but I just stick them down here. Let them take their chances._

_I'm not sure whether that's horrible or lovely, Crowley._

_Yeah, whatever._

_But you can't honestly be telling me that this is your garden of cast outs? All these plants are so beautiful! _

_What?_

_Look at them, my dear _, the Angel said. _Each one is unique. Each has its own little idiosyncrasies. So many suburban gardens are pristine and perfect and, honestly, awfully dull. These plants subvert expectation, they break the mold. Make you question the very archetype of "the garden" and make you want to start the model again from scratch in this one's image. Wild, and rebellious, and comfortable, and safe... Don't you agree? It is a terribly good garden, dear boy. The plants are so free._

Crowley blinked.

_Oh._

_That's why it reminds me of you, my dear._

_Oh. Right. _

_I do love this garden, Crowley. I love it ever so much. Didn't you know?_

_Ngk, _Crowley said.

Crowley has a garden.

No, scratch that. _Crowley and Aziraphale _have a garden.

And Crowley really rather likes it, all things considered.


End file.
